“She”

Talking to myselves

La mémoire se Fane she whispered… and then whispered she

This life is not mine and you are not me

Perhaps just a fraction… perhaps just a start

A small tiny fraction of what makes the whole heart

She did not like she but she adored she

She wondered what time she stopped being “me”

When she laid forfeit to this life of her own?

To be Eleanor Rigby every time she left home?

Hiding behind this mask she called she…

When, she wondered… will I become “me”–

~Fioza

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